


takes one to know one

by limerental



Series: Yenralt Valentines [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Swap, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, F/M, Geralt is into it, Porn Without Plot, Sex in the other's body, Size Difference, Tenderness, Top Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Yennefer has chronic Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: Yennefer and Geralt end up temporarily body swapped. Yennefer's first thought, of course, is that they should probably have rough sex about it. Except fucking your own body ends up weirdly tender.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Yenralt Valentines [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136729
Comments: 12
Kudos: 130
Collections: A Very Yenralt Valentine





	takes one to know one

**Author's Note:**

> written for A Very Yenralt Valentines event

“It’s temporary,” said a gravelly, low voice he had never heard carrying that level of nonchalance.

His own voice.

Across the room, his body shrugged and leaned sideways on the couch in a way both familiar and unerringly strange to see enacted by his bulky, ungainly limbs rather than Yennefer’s easy curves.

“It will resolve itself in a few hours. I told you not to touch anything in here. Honestly, Geralt."

He was far too distracted by present circumstances to bother mumbling an apology. Geralt looked down at his slim hands and slender wrists, then the smooth palms as he turned them upward to inspect, absent of any calluses or scars. He knew these hands, watched the fingers close into a fist and open again with a dizzy detachment.

He glanced back at himself seated on the nearby couch and swallowed hard.

Those were his eyes watching him with growing interest, his shoulders rolling to test the fit of his black shirt, his mouth curving to a smirk as an idea seemed to strike. He knew that look, could recognize it even on his own face.

“We could fuck,” said his own mouth, eyebrows tipped up in a way that screamed Yennefer. She seemed to like the way the words sounded in his voice, laughing. “Fuck,” she said again, rough and pitched even lower. “God, this gift is wasted on you. I could have anyone on their knees with a word if I could purr like this.”

To demonstrate, she hummed even lower.

“I’m going to fuck you,” said Yennefer in his deepest growl. Geralt’s heart thumped too quickly in his chest, too warm, too fast. His senses dulled, but his skin hummed with something electric and sinuous. As his breath hitched, it began to build into a steady burn.

“Yen, I--” The voice he managed was breathy and pitched high, and he could not hide the wobbly panic in it. The seductive glower immediately faded from his -- Yennefer’s-- face.

“You know how to control chaos, Geralt. Don’t let it overwhelm you.”

“This is--” He gasped past the feeling that boiled in his veins. “--this is more than I can control.”

“Breathe,” said Yennefer and loomed suddenly before him, pressing scarred hands to cup below each side of his ribcage, nearly swallowing it entirely. “Breathe, Geralt.”

Geralt knew objectively that his hands naturally dwarfed Yennefer’s waist, but it was very different to feel it, the warmth of the palms smoothing over velvet fabric. He often felt bumbling and too large, did not like to see the proof of how inelegant and brutish he was in contrast to Yennefer’s petite figure, but now, it surprised him how good it felt to be touched by her, a warm thrill sneaking low in his belly.

He struggled to breathe around the feeling of it intermingling with the burn of chaos that he managed to tame, slowly. Yennefer’s steady breaths eased him into a state of control as the magic dropped to a simmer, and he recognized the entangled warmth as arousal.

“Yen,” he said, unable to stop the feminine tone of his voice from hitching on the edge of a moan, and he watched the slitted pupils of the face that loomed above him swell round with interest. She would be able to smell it, his arousal, if not fully understand what it meant.

He had the distant thought that this was bizarrely masturbatory, that he would never have thought himself so desperately aroused by the touch of his own body. He could barely stand to look at himself most days. But this wasn’t attraction, not really. He couldn’t explain it.

“You’re thinking too much,” growled Yennefer, and he knew suddenly how to explain it.

It was Yennefer. That was why he felt like this.

A poor explanation, perhaps, but it was the only one he’d needed before now. Not so different in this case.

“Yen, will you--” She had suggested it first, so it should not feel so hard to put into words. When he floundered terribly like this other times, she was able to peer into his own thoughts to draw them out. Not so now. And he wasn’t sure he had the control to try thought transference himself with no training. “Say it again. What you said. Earlier.”

Recognition dawned with a further darkening of pupils, the amber iris shrinking to a faint, blown out line.

“I’m going to fuck you,” growled Yennefer once more, this time accentuating the words by palming Geralt’s backside and pulling him against her. It seemed to startle her how little effort it took to manhandle him as much as it did Geralt to be moved so easily and held so tightly against a firm chest.

When she ducked to kiss him, it was the same as it ever was.

Well. If he ignored how strange it was to lean up to kiss her, the solid heat of her body as she turned them easily with one hand on his waist and pressed him backwards onto the couch.

But the thrilling feeling of the much larger body covering and encompassing his as Yennefer hitched herself onto the couch and sprawled atop him to kiss down the line of his throat was quickly eclipsed by a sharp twinge in his spine. He went tense, grimacing, but could not adjust the unfamiliar body into a position that did not ache.

Yennefer, taking advantage of her newfound strength, gripped under Geralt’s thighs and tugged until they bent up and she could slot her bulk between them. The pain only worsened into a deepening bloom as the position put new pressure on a pinched place between his shoulderblades.

“Yen, I’m uhh…” He gasped, wincing. “Does it always hurt like this?”

“Shit,” groaned Yennefer in realization and promptly planted a foot on the floor to roll and reverse them, the speed of the position shift dizzying.

“Damn,” Geralt said, small palms planted on the plane of her flat chest. “Easy there. I’m a little more fragile than you are right now.”

“Can’t believe I forgot about--” Yennefer smoothed both hands down her own neck and shoulders, feeling out the slight curve of the vertebrae. “It’s nothing like it was. When I was a child.” Geralt winced as her fingers pressed against the place where it ached. “It was careless of me to forget.”

“This why you prefer to ride me?” he asked as her thick fingers worked out the knot in soothing circles. Yennefer smirked, still an expression that looked bizarre on his own lips.

“No,” she said. “I like to ride you because I like to set the pace. Control the action, as it were.“ She dropped her hands to his hips and dragged them forward with purpose, holding him tight against her. Geralt felt the fluttering pulse of the unfamiliar anatomy between his legs against the much slower thump of Yennefer’s erection. “Pity that I now realize how much of that control is an illusion. You could move me wherever you wanted me.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he managed to breathe past the sudden tightening of his throat. “Wouldn’t take advantage like that.”

A brow arched. Broad palms rutted his hips against the hot length pressed between his legs and back again.

“But I would,” said Yennefer, pitched low, and a feminine whine startled him as it rose from his throat. “I would be a fool not to take advantage.”

It took only some quick fumbling to unfasten Yennefer’s pants and tug Geralt’s dress over his head entirely, quickly followed by Yennefer’s shirt. For a moment, she considered the body above her, rough thumb stroking along the hips and thighs, and then she pressed a hand flat against his back to push their bellies flush. The cushion of full breasts against firm pectoral muscles felt bizarre in reverse, even moreso to feel the texture of scar tissue shift beneath him.

“Well,” said Geralt, unable to manage much more than a whisper, “you going to fuck me?”

Yennefer adjusted them, her foot planted firmly on the floor, and slowly but confidently shifted Geralt’s body until she could press inside.

Being who they were and having been together for decades, this was not the first time that Yennefer had been the one to penetrate him, but they had long ago explored the limits of what faux phalluses had to offer. This was nothing like that, the anatomy and sensations vastly different. Though this passage was less nerve-heavy, strangely numbed to the pressure that filled it, the shocks of shimmering pleasure that rushed through Geralt’s clit as he rocked down against Yennefer’s firm belly more than made up for it.

Beneath him, Yennefer seemed to be having similar revelations, her mouth parted with sharp pants.

“Fuck,” she groaned, and her hips stuttered. “How do you last for even a thrust feeling this? You’re-- I’m-- _fuck_.”

Geralt could not help but laugh at her incoherence, because of course it would be the feeling of Yennefer’s own cunt that left her at a loss for words in bed.

He yelped as she cut off his laughter with a few quick upward thrusts that proved she could indeed last more than a thrust and left Geralt unable to do anything but pant against the scarred chest beneath him.

He gripped the arm of the couch behind them to keep from being jostled too much as Yennefer’s hips picked up a rhythm. His fingers tangled in white strands of hair, silkier than expected when touched by hands so smooth, and he wondered at it, what it meant to watch his own face twisted in pleasure, faintly pink along the cheeks.

He touched one of those cheeks with the light pressure of fingertips, traced a scar that cut along the delicate skin of his eye socket. He remembered that one clearly, how terrified he had been to lose the eye entirely, how it had swollen shut for days and oozed and cracked and then healed ragged. He felt out the ridge of it and before he could think too deeply on it, leaned to press his lips there.

When he drew back, the dark smolder up at him was unmistakably Yennefer. Even without the ability to read his thoughts, she must have know what was stirring in them. Her hands left his hips and touched the place where his spine still ached, caressed the shoulders that sat just slightly uneven, even as her thrusts steadied within him, a slow and languid sort of love-making that warmed Geralt from toe to eartip.

This body blushed easier than his, and he felt as though his whole skin were alight as Yennefer kissed his collarbones, his throat, his jaw, his breasts, until he had to bat her away when her stubble began to scrape.

Neither of them put voice to it, what it felt to make love to your own body. Why Geralt trembled as he pressed his lips to mottled scars amidst wiry body hair, why Yennefer stroked her hands to feel each vertebrae one by one.

Neither needed words, not really. They understood.

It took Yennefer some fumbling to adjust to touching Geralt wearing her body the way that she best enjoyed it, but when she shifted to the right pressure and motion of her fingers between his legs, his breathy moans rose in volume despite himself, the sensation too much and building to crescendo, then building again without pause.

The tension of his orgasm inspired the telltale signs of the approaching climax of the body beneath him as Yennefer clutched at him almost too tightly, no doubt leaving fingerprint bruises where her fingers dug. A thrill of sharp pain rushed through him as her sharp teeth tightened in the meat of his shoulder as she finished deep inside him.

In a fresh blur of vertigo, he suddenly found himself blinking up at the ceiling, tasting blood. Yennefer sat up quickly in a cloud of dark curls, returned to her own body. She winced.

“Ouch,” she said, feeling out her fresh aches and pains, touching her shoulder and drawing back with blood on her fingers, “you brute.”

Geralt must have looked briefly stricken, because Yennefer laughed and leaned to kiss him.

He exhaled into the kiss, lazily feeling out the shape of her body with his hands.

It was the same as it ever was.

If in intimate moments after, he lingered sometimes longer than usual on a slow sweep of Yennefer’s spine and the round curve of her shoulders and she pressed lingering kisses to the ridges of his scar tissue, then neither said a word.


End file.
